


The Devil Went Down to Paris

by DeadshotMusketeer



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 05:15:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6642709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadshotMusketeer/pseuds/DeadshotMusketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Complete.  One shot.  Aramis centred, whump included.  Main cast throughout.  The gauntlet has been thrown.  The challenge made.  Aramis must decide whether to accept the invitation or put his trust in a flawed system.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil Went Down to Paris

**The Devil Went Down to Paris**

by DeadshotMusketeer

**i.**

The path of the tiny lead ball led it straight through the side of Aramis' neck, tearing open tender flesh and splattering warm wet blood across Porthos' face.

As the marksman fell, Porthos lurched forward, catching him as he collapsed. They hit the ground together, Porthos sacrificing himself to shield his brother without thought.

"Close the gates!"

"Everyone down!"

Another bang echoed in the garrison courtyard and something pierced the ground beside them, spitting gravel on Porthos. He pulled his leg in and squeezed his friend tighter beneath him, trying to make them a smaller target.

He held his breath, afraid any movement would make them more visible, and burrowed his head into Aramis' shoulder.

Debris pelted the ground nearby, ricocheting dirt off his body and filling Porthos' nose with the smell of sulphur and copper. His ears rang as the sounds of flash-bangs erupted around him, and he hoped it was his brothers fighting back.

"Hang on, Aramis," he whispered, coiling tighter around his friend. "I've got you."

Beneath him Aramis lay still, his head cocked awkwardly to the side. Porthos raised his own half an inch to verify his friend was alive, thinking him dead until he saw him blink.

Dirt showered down on them again when another ball struck the ground near their heads, reminding Porthos of their dangerous predicament. He tucked himself tighter around his friend, not letting go until he felt hands on his arms pulling him up.

"It's over."

"We've got him."

"Are you hurt?"

Porthos allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. But dizzied by the effects of his rapidly depleted adrenaline meshing with his quickly mounting concern for Aramis, he stumbled back, landing on his backside.

He shook his head and his senses fell back into place in time to see d'Artagnan drop to his knees beside Aramis. The Gascon wrapped his hands around the marksman's throat, and Porthos swallowed back his rising bile. Blood was seeping out between the young man's fingers and it wouldn't stop.

"No," he gasped _._ "He isn't…?"

"He's alive," said d'Artagnan.

The blood rushed from Porthos' head, his stomach churned. It took a moment of deep breathing for him to realize it was relief he felt.

Athos' hand appeared in front of him. He accepted the help up as musketeers carried Aramis away. He rushed after them, aware of the blood still dripping through d'Artagnan's fingers as Aramis was layed out on the table.

Porthos pushed through the small crowd surrounding his friend and leaned over. He stared down, chest tight and vaguely aware of d'Artagnan's voice.

"We need bandages," said the Gascon.

Porthos lay a hand on his friend's forehead and stared into a watery, desperate gaze that held questions he could not answer.

"Porthos. Bandages."

Porthos grunted and looked at d'Artagnan. "What?"

"Treville sent for the physician. But Aramis needs our help now." D'Artagnan held out his hand. "Bandage."

Porthos yanked the headscarf from his belt and passed it to d'Artagnan. As the bandage was applied, Porthos held his friend's head between his hands. He sniffed back what felt like tears and smiled down at him, to which Aramis replied with a long, slow blink.

"It's just a scratch. You'll be all right," Porthos said.

Aramis mouthed the words, _I know_ , and Porthos' lips quivered.

His eyes burned, so he wiped them with his hand before tears could fall. His throat clenched so tight he could barely swallow. Porthos gritted his teeth in an effort to make the feelings go away, only to have the rest of his body tremble.

He noticed his hand resting on Aramis' forehead was pressing too hard and released it. Knowing d'Artagnan was doing everything possible, Porthos turned away. He bent over, bracing his weight with his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths. A hand squeezed his shoulder. It belonged to Athos.

"I'm all right," Porthos said, his voice catching in his throat. When he could speak again, he stood tall with his shoulders square. "You know I'm gonna find the coward responsible and rip his arms off, right?"

"I'd have it no other way," said Athos.

"We."

Porthos turned to the table. "Yes. We," he confirmed, nodding at the Gascon.

D'Artagnan's hands had not moved from the marksman's wound, but the blood kept coming, seeping slowly through his now wet fingers. There was too much blood for the Gascon to control. Too much for him to let go.

Tears welled again in Porthos' eyes, blurring his vision. His cheeks ached from the strain of holding them back but he couldn't let his best friend see him scared. So when d'Artagnan suddenly leaned over Aramis, Porthos wiped them away before stepping to the table.

He saw Aramis' lips moving but heard nothing. "What's he saying?" he asked.

D'Artagnan looked at him smiling. "He said, _not without me_."

A clap on the back rocked Porthos forward before he could take a breath. He reached up and patted Athos' hand still resting on his shoulder.

"Make room!"

Their captain ran toward them carrying a small but familiar bag in his hands. It was the kit Aramis carried in his saddlebag containing medical supplies.

Porthos stepped out of the way, watching and listening with Athos at the end of the table, and staying within his friend's sight to supply moral support.

The ragged damage he saw to Aramis' neck made his hands twitch open and closed, his teeth grind together so hard his teeth squeaked. Porthos knew his anger wasn't helping, but it was easier to let it consume him, rather than anxiety or fear.

When d'Artagnan pulled his hands back to show Treville the wound, a thin stream of red liquid arced upward.

Porthos staggered back, doubling over and heaving air. He looked at Athos to steady himself before turning his eyes back to the table where d'Artagnan and Treville were reapplying pressure.

Aramis' legs were now bent at the knees, the soles of his boots planted firmly on the table with his legs swaying back and forth. His knuckles were white as he gripped the table on either side of him.

Porthos moved forward on instinct, halted by Athos' strong arm across his chest.

"Give them room," said the swordsman.

Porthos spun away. "Where's that damn physician?" he screamed, looking across the courtyard.

Several musketeers stood watching a few feet away, craning their necks and gripping each others' shoulders.

Porthos looked past them to the gate. It was closed. On the rooftops surrounding the courtyard, more musketeers searched the streets of Paris below and the fields beyond, their pistols and muskets in hand as they crept along.

He turned his attention back to the courtyard and noticed others sweeping through the stables, running in and out of doors, calling out situation reports to each other while searching for intruders. Porthos' first instinct had been to protect his friend and had not yet considered the aftermath.

A thought occurred to him and he turned to the men standing nearby. "Was anyone else hurt?"

The men shook their heads to which Porthos replied with a brisk nod. Remembering the absence of the physician, he made his way toward the main gate. Aramis would still be there when he returned, had to be. Porthos kept telling himself that as he motioned for the men to open the doors.

As they swung wide, the hinges creaked in protest. It was not often the gates were closed.

Porthos approached at a brisk pace, pulling the sword from his belt and waving for others to join him.

The doors swung open revealing a cluster of curious Parisians. They inched forward then scuttled back when Porthos and his armed entourage stepped forward.

Pushing through the crowd toward him was a musketeer, his royal blue cloak standing out amongst the greys and browns of the city dwellers. With him was the physician, familiar by his short black cossack and leather bag clutched in his hands.

"About time," said Porthos, grabbing the physician by the shoulder and herding him inside the gate. The physician protested but Porthos ignored him, caring only that his friend be seen soon rather than later.

Back at the table, Treville relinquished care of Aramis to the physician. Porthos wanted to stay with his friend, but knew he'd be more beneficial helping regain order in the garrison.

D'Artagnan stayed with Aramis while Athos joined him in surveying the damage. There wasn't much, a few splintered chairs and clay chips from the walls littered the ground, but mostly the musketeers were searching for evidence of who attacked their garrison.

As Porthos crossed through the centre of the courtyard eyeing the debris, a hand grabbed his arm.

"Porthos."

He stopped and turned to Athos. Then following his gaze to the ground, his world tilted and he momentarily lost his footing as the scenery shifted around him. "That's a lot of blood," he said.

"But perhaps it isn't too much," replied Athos.

Porthos made a fist and punched it into the palm of his other hand. "Someone is gonna pay for this."

"Dearly."

Porthos turned to Athos. "If no one else was hurt, do you think Aramis was a target?"

"I hate to think it, but it seems likely."

Pounding his fist again, Porthos spun away with his hands braced on his hips then paced a small circle, his mind searching for answers. "What the 'ell happened? Who did this? How many were there?"

Athos canted his head to the side. "I was with d'Artagnan by the gates. The shot came from over there." He pointed to the roof of a building opposite them. "Aramis spun on impact."

 _His friend's ashen face… blood smacking his cheek_.

Porthos felt his lungs constrict. He heaved in air trying to breathe. A hand grabbed him, offering support before he fell. He closed his eyes, slowing his breathing through sheer force of will until his chest opened up again.

A musketeer carrying a small bowl of lead balls collected from the courtyard passed in front of them. Athos stopped the soldier and Porthos sifted through the contents, his fingers turning red as he did. He pulled the offender from the bowl and held it up.

"This is the one," he said, wiping it on his sleeve before putting it in his pocket. Then noticing Athos watching him, he pounded his chest. "The bible says eye for an eye. Well I say, ball for a ball."

"You can't be serious?"

"Never more serious in my life," he said turning away. He strode back toward the table, eager to return to his friend.

"Are you sure Aramis would want it this way?"

Porthos spun back, his head and chest thrust forward by the sudden stop in his momentum. "Course not," he said. "You know, Aramis. He'd rather do it himself."

A moment passed where Athos said nothing. The he dipped his head, sharing a rare smile, which Porthos recognized as approval. "Actually, I agree," he said. "So let's make sure he gets the chance."

**ii**

White light burned Aramis' eyes as he stared at the sun. He couldn't turn away, the hands holding his head were too strong, and he didn't want to close them for fear of never opening them again.

The sting of the needle and thread tugging and piercing the thin skin of his neck made his eyes water. It blurred the light but not the intensity. It felt like a screw burrowing through his skull to the back of his head.

But it was no distraction from his fluttering heart, or his fast and shallow breathing. He felt dizzy. Each arm wanted to move. Each leg wanted to run. His back yearned to stretch and bend and twist at the waist. Aramis knew he'd lost a lot of blood.

Not even the soothing voice of d'Artagnan telling him to be still and that everything was going to be okay was enough to quell his body's need to move.

There were other things to think about, like who had done this? Was everyone safe? But Aramis couldn't focus on anything beyond what was happening to him.

He turned his eyes toward d'Artagnan whose young face hovered a few feet above his. Their newest recruit to the regiment wasn't looking at him, which gave Aramis the opportunity to see an honest reaction.

D'Artagnan's lips were set in a grim line; his forehead furrowed enough to fold the skin between his eyes. It wasn't until the young man caught him staring that his expression changed to confidence.

Unable to speak, Aramis smiled back but was sure it looked more like a grimace since d'Artagnan placed a hand on his forehead and leaned closer.

"You're doing good," d'Artagnan said. "The physician is almost done. Just hold still a little longer."

There was earnestness in his voice Aramis could not deny. He blinked several times, hoping the Gascon would understand it as his way of nodding.

A moment later d'Artagnan's attention returned to his neck and something the physician was saying. Aramis kept his focus on his friend, studying his reactions so he could tell what was really going on.

D'Artagnan seemed so intense, with deep lines etched across his forehead and lips pressed thin when he wasn't looking down at him. But every once in a while when he turned back, his firm lips morphed into a soft smile giving Aramis hope.

It was a relief when d'Artagnan finally stood up. The Gascon took Aramis' hands and enclosed them within his own, and the marksman saw brightness in his eyes.

"You're good," said d'Artagnan. "Porthos was right. It was only a scratch."

Aramis breathed out. _Thank god_. His head spun, his stomach churned, and his legs fell listlessly to the table.

"How bad?" he whispered, sensing the stiff, restrictive stitches in his neck.

D'Artagnan and the physician hushed him. "Don't speak," said d'Artagnan.

"And don't move," said the physician. "Let the wound settle. Then I'll bandage it. You lost a lot of blood, son, so I want you to remain here to gather your strength before you go gallivanting about."

Aramis looked toward the physician and carefully mouthed the words, _thank you_.

The physician frowned. "Don't thank me," he said. "Thank god someone had poor aim. Less than half an inch deeper and we'd be standing over you in a completely different manner."

_Poor aim or a perfect shot?_

As a marksman, Aramis knew a fine line separated the two. But now that he no longer feared death, the pull of sleep overpowered his discerning mind. His eyelids drooped as his body sank into the table like lead on water. It felt good, so he let his body succumb, trusting that if he fell asleep now he would wake again.

"How is he?"

"Give him time, he'll be fine."

"That's our Aramis. Horseshoes up his…"

"That was close."

Aramis recognized the voice of his captain. He also recognized the other voices; Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan, but didn't have the strength to address them.

He entrusted the Gascon to fill them in as he felt warm water surround his body, pulling him deeper into its depths and lulling him into tranquility. But the disjointed voices above him that refused to stop talking, snatched his relief away faster than his body could handle.

"... who would..."

"...catch them..."

Aramis opened his eyes, blinking instantly when the white light pierced through his skull. His heart pounded. His mouth went dry, and all his limbs moved at once in jarring, random movements.

Hands and familiar faces helped him restore his composure. When settled, Aramis realized he'd never be able to sleep with them talking so he found something to focus on.

He sought out Porthos, who caught him staring and smiled.

"Everyone's good," Porthos said. Aramis smiled back. Of course his best friend would know exactly what to say.

"We'll get the son-of-a-bitch who did this, don't you worry," continued Porthos.

Aramis blinked hard instead of nodding and the slight squeeze of his shoulder let him know Porthos understood.

"I believe there was only one shooter," said Athos.

"How so?" asked Treville.

Aramis honed his focus on a spot on Porthos' forehead as he listened. It helped him from drifting back off to sleep and thus, being reawakened in a state of panic again.

"Markus reached the wall where the attack came from quite quickly," replied Athos. "He said he saw a lone man riding away from the garrison across the fields."

Treville tipped his hat back. "He was the shooter?"

"We won't know till we speak with him," said Athos.

"I didn't see much of anything," said Porthos. "But I know I felt more than just one close call."

"Perhaps he reloaded?" offered d'Artagnan.

"It was over in minutes," stated Treville. "No time."

"Than he had more than one pistol," said d'Artagnan.

Aramis waved a hand and Athos looked down. The marksman spread his hands wider than his shoulders, dropping them quickly when he felt a deep sting in his neck. He'd moved too much and too quickly, but his point was made.

"Muskets," corrected Athos. "Which makes sense given the distance, and which makes finding our culprit somewhat easier."

"Muskets are harder to come by," said Porthos.

"And even harder to use with any sense of accuracy," added d'Artagnan.

Aramis smirked.

"You be quiet," said d'Artagnan. "I can actually hear your smugness."

Porthos chuckled as he settled on the table facing Aramis, his arm stretched over him and resting on his other side. His broad frame blocked the light shinning into Aramis' eyes. His cheeks relaxed, reducing the strain around his eyes and the pounding at the back of his head.

Porthos glanced over his shoulder. "Was the sun bothering you?"

"Yes," whispered Aramis.

"Ah, well, I'll stay with you for a bit," Porthos said. "Keep you in the shade till you're strong enough to get up."

Aramis smiled, placed a hand on his friend's lap and tapped gently.

"We'll leave you to that," said Treville. "You were lucky, Aramis. But it's good to still have you around."

Treville disappeared from his view, followed by d'Artagnan and Athos after they shared their well wishes and said their good-byes.

The sounds and voices of the garrison faded into the background when his friends left, and Aramis felt the heaviness of sleep returning.

**iii.**

Porthos' stomach hadn't yet settled by the time he woke his sleeping friend. But with the rising moon came a chill, which Porthos knew would only get worse, so he shook Aramis gently and called his name, d'Artagnan standing beside him ready to help.

"Come on," Porthos said, pulling his friend upward. "You've rested long enough. Time to get your arse back to work."

Aramis frowned.

"He's joking," said d'Artagnan, guiding Aramis by the shoulder. "We're taking you to bed."

Aramis swallowed, nodded then grimaced.

"Still hurts, huh?" asked Porthos.

Aramis mouthed the word _yes_.

"Let's do this slowly then," suggested Porthos, wrapping an arm around the marksman's shoulders and urging him toward the edge of the table.

"The physician said you're not to move your head for the next day or so to let the muscles heal," said d'Artagnan. "I hope the scarf isn't too tight, but it's needed to hold the bandage in place."

Aramis reached for his neck.

"Leave it alone," said Porthos. "You don't want it bleeding again. The physician left hours ago." He hoisted his friend to his feet and grabbed him tighter. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

"Where's Athos?" asked Aramis, holding his neck as he whispered.

D'Artagnan nodded up the stairs. "With the captain. Markus and his men returned a little while ago. Athos is taking care of it. In the meantime, we volunteered for governess duty."

"I don't need…"

"Finish that statement and I'll pound you," said Porthos. "Now… you good? Or are we going to have to carry you?"

Aramis raised a hand. "I'm good."

"Stop talking," said d'Artagnan.

"Stop asking me questions," replied Aramis in a breathy whisper.

Porthos smiled, and then realized Aramis seemed uncertain, like he had just made a mistake. Porthos watched as what little colour he had drain from his face before crumpling toward the ground.

"Carry it is then," said Porthos, catching his friend. "Get the doors," he said to d'Artagnan, then scooped Aramis up and quickly followed after the Gascon.

With Aramis undressed to his braies and shirt, and asleep on his bed, Porthos and d'Artagnan stood back and shared a bottle of wine confiscated from the marksman's private reserve.

"Think he'll be all right?" asked d'Artagnan, passing the bottle to Porthos.

"Sure," Porthos said with a shrug. "This is Aramis. In the morning we'll get a little food in him and he'll be chomping at the bit to catch the guy who did this."

D'Artagnan nodded. "All right then," he said, clapping Porthos on the shoulder. "I'm going to see Athos and Treville."

Porthos reached for the chair by the door. "I think I'll stay here for a while." He sat facing Aramis and moved the blanket further up his friend's body. "Make sure he doesn't wake up and do something reckless."

"Good idea," said d'Artagnan. He bid farewell and closed the door behind him as he left.

Porthos settled himself and watched Aramis sleep; his eyes keen to any bloodstains forming on the bandage until he could no longer keep them open.

A creaking door woke him awhile later. He bolted upright, his heart pounding and skin slick with cold sweat. "You scared me," he said, clutching his chest.

Athos crossed the room and stood beside him. "Apologies," he said. "How's he doing? Has he done anything… Aramis-like yet?"

Porthos laughed under his breath. "Not yet. What's the news?"

"Markus and his men lost the assailant in the woods," Athos said. "But they found this."

Porthos accepted a handkerchief into his hand and studied it. "Initials. P-S-L. Mean anything to you?"

"No, but they might mean something to Aramis. How's he doing?"

"Sleeping like a baby."

"Yes. Well. Nothing phases that man," said Athos. He cleared his throat and helped himself to the half empty bottle of wine at Porthos' feet. After a long swig he said, "tomorrow we'll go looking for the owner of the handkerchief, but for tonight, let us pray we're as lucky as Aramis was today."

Porthos watched the swordsman place the wine on the table then leave. He turned back to Aramis and watched him sleep for a few moments, then reached forward to touch the bandage. Before contact, he pulled his hand back and placed it on Aramis' forearm instead. "Sleep well, old friend."

The next morning Porthos woke to the sounds of the garrison coming to life. He noticed Aramis had shifted in his sleep and his head now canted toward the injured side of his neck.

He gently pushed Aramis' chin to straighten his head and noticed he was awake. "Morning, sunshine."

Aramis blinked and slowly raised a hand to the bandage. He prodded around the wound with a grimace then let his hand drop to the bed. "So it really happened?"

Porthos noticed his friend's lips barely moved when he spoke, but was glad to hear his voice instead of a whisper. "Yeah. Really happened," he said. "Feel like getting up?"

Aramis braced his hands behind his neck and sat up. He kicked off the blanket and swung his legs to the floor.

Porthos motioned for him to stay seated. "Give it a second. No rush."

He pulled the tiny ball from his pocket and held it out in the palm of his hand. "Found this yesterday."

Aramis looked at him. "Is that…?"

"Yeah," replied Porthos. "Thought it might be poetic. You know, maybe file it down and use…" He stopped when Aramis picked the ball from his hand.

The marksman rolled it between his finger and thumb then held it up. Porthos saw him squinting, and waited anxiously for his friend to explain.

"It's engraved," Aramis said.

Porthos took back the ball and examined it closely. "Well, I'll be," he said. "Looks like a fancy letter L."

The door opened and d'Artagnan and Athos entered. The Gascon held an envelope in his hand as they approached the bed. "This just came," he said.

Porthos reached for it but d'Artagnan pulled it back, offering it to Aramis instead. "It's for him," he said.

Aramis broke the wax seal and opened the letter. As he read it, Porthos saw tight lines forming around his eyes and wondered what it said.

When Aramis finished reading, he passed it to him. Porthos read the first few lines before restarting and reading aloud. "Monsieur Aramis. Please forgive the injustice I have brought upon you. I meant you no suffering. My goal was to kill you quickly and prevent any harsh or painful repercussions."

Porthos dropped the letter to his side. "This is a joke, right?"

Aramis motioned for him to continue.

Porthos let out a long breath and continued reading. "But my mistake has provided me with an even greater opportunity. For I call upon your reputation and propose a duel. It shall be a showcase to prove that your renowned skills as a marksman are no match for my workmanship. I will, respectively, be most honoured to take your life while bringing a name to my house. Dispatching the marksman of Paris will provide me with both esteem and wealth that shall be endorsed by your death.

"I look forward to our meeting. Clausette Field, north of the pond. Noon. Three days hence."

Porthos looked at the faces in the room before finishing. "It's signed, P-S-L."

"Same as the handkerchief," said d'Artagnan.

"Do those initials mean anything to you, Aramis?" asked Athos.

"No."

Porthos held out the ball. "Aramis found an etching," he said. "We think it's the letter L."

"As in P-S-L," said d'Artagnan.

Athos took the letter from Porthos and moved toward the door. "I'll take this to Treville," he said. "In the meantime, you two get some food and drink into this man before he passes out. He looks like hell."

Porthos helped Aramis to his feet then stood back and waited until the marksman gave him a signal he was all right. But he was quiet.

When Aramis was quiet, Porthos knew something was brewing. He would ask him about it later. Right now, food and wine were more important.

They proceeded toward the refectory, Porthos and d'Artagnan hovering on either side of Aramis. After a short but slow walk through the halls, they arrived without incident. Aramis took a seat while d'Artagnan fetched bread and wine, and Porthos sat himself next to his friend.

After every bite, Aramis braced before swallowing, and after every drink he rested his forehead in his hand propped on the table by his elbow.

"Painful?" asked Porthos.

"Yes," said Aramis. "But I need to regain my strength."

Porthos helped himself to the wine and offered a glass to the Gascon. They sat in silence, waiting for Athos and watching their friend struggle. If Porthos didn't know any better, he would have thought the scratchy pain in his own throat meant an illness coming on. But on reflection, he knew he was feeling sympathetic to Aramis and his misery.

Athos and Treville entered a short while later. The swordsman took a seat at the table while their captain stood next Aramis.

"You're looking better," said Treville, placing a hand on the marksman's shoulder. "You and Porthos missed muster, which is understandable. I'll give you the short version. Athos and d'Artagnan are going to find this P-S-L person." He paused and looked at them. "Start with the messenger who delivered the letter. And Aramis, you've been put on light duties per the physician's orders. And I tend to enforce it."

Porthos watched Aramis for signs of argument, surprised none were forthcoming. Then he looked at Treville. "What about me, Captain?"

"You're with me," Treville said. "I want this garrison reinforced. It seems we've been a little too comfortable around here."

Porthos nodded at d'Artagnan and Athos. "I'd rather go with them, Captain."

"I know," said Treville. "That's why you're staying here."

Porthos grumbled then noticed Aramis' long face and realized he had nothing to complain about. "When do we get started?" he asked.

"I don't know why you're all still sitting," replied Treville. "Aramis. We'll need more armaments. I don't want to be caught unprepared again. Clean and inspect the ones in storage. That should keep you busy without too much trouble."

Aramis raised a hand above his head and waved.

"Good," said Treville. "Begin when you're ready. The rest of you, out. Now."

**iv.**

Aramis sat at a table in the armoury, an oilcloth over his shoulder, field stripping an arquebus. The weapon didn't need it, but for Aramis it was a repetitive physical process similar to meditation.

He'd finished the entire inventory an hour ago and was keeping busy till Athos and d'Artagnan returned. He enjoyed the time alone, giving him time to think. No one had asked him his response to the letter's invitation, leading him to believe they thought he wouldn't accept.

Someone wanted him dead and that was displeasing. Someone open fired into the home of the musketeers, that was unacceptable. But the letter pushed him over the edge. It reeked of conceit and callousness, as if his life meant no more than the words on paper.

He decided to tell Porthos first of his decision, but he would have to speak with him quickly before someone took the evidence to the king. Aramis had little faith in the justice system, and felt there would be no satisfaction should he leave it in its hands.

Aramis put the arquebus on the table, sat back and let out a long breath. He put a hand to the wound and prodded gently. Each push of the tender skin sent a sharp sting up the side of his face and down across his shoulder. Even clenching his jaw caused a stabbing sensation.

Experience told him the ball had damaged more than just skin and artery, and he figured his agony would long outlast the actual wound.

A bang echoed from down the corridor, he turned his head and hissed a curse.

It was the small things, the everyday things, and the things one took for granted that caused him the most grief. If someone spoke to him, he turned to face him. If he yawned, his neck muscles stretched. And if he sat for too long, his head listed to the side.

Aramis couldn't believe how tiring it was concentrating on not doing ordinary things.

He went to the window for a change of scenery and paused. Athos and d'Artagnan were in the courtyard speaking with Porthos. He headed outside and caught up with them at the table.

Athos poured a cup of wine and brought it to him where he stood leaning against the staircase. Aramis accepted and took a small sip. The burn he enjoyed, but the act of swallowing he didn't.

"Come. Sit," said d'Artagnan, rising to make room on the bench.

Aramis showed his palm. "No. Thank you. From here I can see all of you without turning my head. What did you learn?"

Athos sighed long and slow. "Well… We met a man, who knew a man…"

"Who heard a woman speak of her husband," continued d'Artagnan.

"How very convoluted," said Aramis.

"Indeed," said Athos.

Aramis crossed his arms over his chest. "How is any of that significant?"

"The husband is a gunsmith," said d'Artagnan. He ran his hands through his hair then reached for the jug of wine. As he poured a cup he looked at Aramis. " _Was_ , a gunsmith."

"And his name?" he asked.

Athos put his hat on the table, rested a foot on a bench and leaned forward. "Pierre St. Laurent."

Aramis didn't recognize the name. "Any known contracts?" he asked.

"No. Hence, _was_ a gunsmith," replied d'Artagnan.

Aramis grew excited. Pierre St. Laurent. A name. Something tangible.

"Aramis?"

This man's conceit made Aramis want to hit something, or better yet, shoot something. How dare this St. Laurent take his life for granted? He needed to be put in his place. He needed to know what it felt like to be on the receiving end of a musket. Particularly, a musket held by someone known not to miss.

"Aramis?"

The marksman looked at Porthos.

"You all right?" asked Porthos. "You seem a little tense?"

"And why wouldn't I be?" Aramis felt the muscles straining in his neck and didn't feel like talking anymore. He pushed off the baluster, allowing his anger to carry him across the courtyard toward his room. He slammed the door behind him then bent forward grasping his neck, the entire right side of his face suddenly alight with fire.

He fell to his knees squeezing his neck. The pain would not subside, bringing uncontrollable tears to his right eye and an ache to his jaw.

He cursed his complacency as well as his situation. When he'd had enough, he cursed the man responsible.

It was only after the room turned dark that Aramis got to his feet. He lay on his bed and closed his eyes. For a long while he expected to hear footsteps and someone knocking on his door. Neither happened.

He decided not to wait any longer and fell asleep.

The world spun before his eyes, stopping on Porthos' face splattered with blood. His blood.

Aramis sat up on the bed, kicked off his boots and lay back down and closed his eyes.

The world spun again, and Porthos was splattered with blood.

Aramis took off his shirt, threw it on the floor and slipped between the sheets and closed his eyes.

The world still spun and Porthos was still splattered in blood.

He kicked off the sheets and sat up. He got dressed, noticed a half empty bottle of wine on the table and gulped it back with no regard for the pain tearing up and down the right side of his neck and face.

The bottle felt cool in his hand, so he rolled it against his forehead. The feverish feeling would not go away, but he felt fine. He put the bottle down and headed into the corridor.

Without knocking, Aramis entered Porthos' room. It was empty. He sat at the table and waited for his friend to retire for the night.

**v.**

Porthos stared across the courtyard after his friend. "What's with him?"

"Leave him be," said Athos. "He has a lot on his mind."

Porthos frowned. "I'm sure he does," he said. "It's just not like him to walk away like that." Then he remembered he was talking about Aramis- the unflappable Aramis, and waved his hand. "Aw… I'm probably just worrying for nothing."

Athos sat down next to d'Artagnan and refilled their cups with wine. He drank his in one gulp and poured himself another. "His mind was elsewhere," he said, staring at the table "When he heard the name he was already days ahead of us."

"Three to be exact," said d'Artagnan.

"I think he's planning on accepting the challenge," said Porthos.

"Of course," said Athos. "You said yourself Aramis would have it no other way."

Porthos pounded a fist on the table. "Damn right." He leaned over scowling. "And I for one don't plan on stopping him."

D'Artagnan raised his brows. "Stop? No. But perhaps…"

A growl formed in Porthos' chest.

"… lend a hand?" finished d'Artagnan.

Porthos smiled his broad, toothy grin and clapped the young musketeer on the shoulder. He turned to Athos expecting a nod but was met with a countenance made of stone.

Porthos dipped his head. "Athos?" he said. "This is Aramis were talking about. He deserves our loyalty. Especially after the Marsac incident."

Athos remained stoic for several seconds before gracing him with a slight nod. He raised his cup. Porthos and d'Artagnan did likewise. "For Aramis," he said. "No matter what he chooses."

The cups banged together, sloshing wine on the table. "Now what about the captain?" asked Porthos, keeping his voice low. "He's seen the letter."

"He'll want to take it to the king," said d'Artagnan.

There was a pause before Athos replied. "I will handle, Treville," he said. "Now lets not talk of this any further. We'll speak with Aramis tomorrow."

By the time Porthos headed to his room he was tipsy. He bounced off the walls of the corridor several times before he arrived at his door. He expected to fall asleep immediately. What he hadn't expected was to find Aramis sitting at his table.

"I'm accepting the challenge," said Aramis, as Porthos entered.

"I wouldn't want it any other way."

Aramis turned completely in his chair. "I knew you would understand. What of our brothers?"

Porthos approached the table. "They're behind you. You've got a name to protect…"

"I don't do this to protect my name, or my honour!"

Porthos raised his hands in surrender, calming his friend before he tore his stitches.

"I do this because someone came into our house with malcontent," said Aramis. "I do this because justice must be served. This man deserves no more attention than a funeral can provide. He's admitted his guilt. It's black and white."

"Not that I don't agree," Porthos said, sitting at the table. "But you just said it yourself, the King has no choice but to proclaim a guilty verdict."

Aramis stared at the table for several seconds. "There's always a chance…"

Porthos dropped his head and shook it lightly. "Unfortunately, yeah," he said. "We've seen guiltier men go free countless times."

"While the innocent are punished."

"You have a few days," Porthos said. "Will you be up to it?"

Aramis looked at him. "I have to be."

"You look terrible."

"Thank you," said Aramis, then a dark shadow crossed his face. "I was having trouble…"

Aramis paused, and Porthos noticed his friend staring at him with sad, languid eyes.

Aramis waved his hand. "Never mind."

Porthos watched his friend for several seconds. Aramis' features returned to their natural state so Porthos let out a long sigh. "So we sleep on this," he said, rising from the table. "Tomorrow we'll get it all sorted out. Athos said he'd handle Treville. What ever that means."

Aramis smiled. "Best we not know."

Porthos smiled back. "Best not."

He threw his gloves on the table and undid his belts. As he moved about the room undressing, Aramis remained at the table. When Porthos had nothing left to do but get in bed, Aramis rose quietly and left the room. It wasn't until the door closed that Porthos realized something.

Frustrated he hadn't seen it earlier he threw his head back. "Aramis!" he called, running after him.

He caught up with him outside his room. They shared a nod, their unspoken language clear as day, and then Porthos followed Aramis in and made himself comfortable on the floor.

**vi.**

At breakfast the next morning Aramis felt better. The soreness in his jaw still bothered him and the watery eye annoyed him, but the fear of tearing the needlework was all but gone. He still had to be careful, but not as cautious.

"So?" asked d'Artagnan, as they sat around the table. "Did you speak with the captain?"

Athos looked directly at him. "Yes."

"And?" asked the Gascon. "What did you say to him?"

"It's best you not know," said Athos.

D'Artagnan looked at everyone before settling back on Athos.

"Just leave it, d'Artagnan," Aramis said, putting a hand on the young man's arm. "Athos said he took care of it."

D'Artagnan appeared conflicted. Aramis didn't like being left in the dark anymore than him, but understood that sometimes it was for the best.

D'Artagnan was new at wearing the pauldron, but not new to being a musketeer. Aramis knew he would follow them anywhere, have their back no matter what came. But that didn't mean he would do it blindly without asking questions. Especially when they were leading him down a less, righteous, path.

"You lied, didn't you?" asked d'Artagnan, his voice low as he leaned across the table.

Athos shot a glance toward Aramis. "Of course not," he said.

"That would be wrong," said Porthos.

Aramis flushed. His brother had deceived their captain for his sake. It was not something Aramis took lightly. "But appreciated nonetheless," he said, tipping his head in Athos direction.

"So what now?" asked Porthos, tearing open a loaf of bread.

"Now," said Athos. "You and I deliver a letter to the King. And I presume after that, we'll have an arrest to make."

Porthos chuckled and tiny crumbs fell from his mouth. "I suspect it'll be rather hard finding this St. Laurent, yeah?"

"Indeed it will," replied Athos.

"And d'Artagnan and myself?" asked Aramis, scooting closer to the table.

"You actually find him," said Athos.

"As much as this man does not deserve honour," Aramis said. "I prefer to finish this as a gentleman and meet him as proposed. I do not wish to kill him by underhanded means. Only fairly."

"Why?" asked d'Artagnan. "It's not like we're above doing something terrible like lying to the captain. Oh wait…"

Aramis leaned forward and grabbed the Gascon's arm. "Listen, d'Artagnan," he said. "You're either with us…"

"I'm with you," said d'Artagnan.

"No harm will come to us if we do this quietly," said Athos.

"Agreed," said Porthos.

"And I don't mean for you to kill him," continued Athos, looking directly at Aramis. "I meant surveillance. I presumed you would want to at least get to know what you're up against. And I suggest you don't let him see you. Unless, of course, you feel you're capable of controlling yourself this soon after the attempt on your life. You wouldn't want to go back on your word that you are a gentleman." Athos winked at him then rose from the table. "But do as you must. Porthos and I will meet you both later."

After Porthos and Athos left, Aramis studied the Gascon closely. "Are you sure you're up for this?" he asked.

"Of all people," replied d'Artagnan. "I think I understand your situation better than anyone."

Aramis smiled, remembering the day d'Artagnan had barged into the garrison looking to kill Athos. He'd been so young, so wild, and so hotheaded. Not like the man of control sitting before him now. _Yes_ , he thought. _You would understand_.

He smiled and patted the Gascon on the shoulder. "I feel like some fresh air," he said. "Shall we take a walk? See the sights of Paris?"

"They haven't changed," said a voice behind them.

Aramis twisted to see Treville coming down the stairs. "Captain. I… I didn't hear you coming."

"Obviously," replied Treville. He stopped at the end of the table, eyeing them both with a raised eyebrow. "Can I possibly hope, neither of you will do anything rash?"

Aramis and d'Artagnan frowned as they looked at each other.

"Come on," said Treville. "It's no secret the two of you are magnets for trouble. Together, I can't imagine what could go wrong."

Aramis slowly rose from the table, a hand gently rubbing his wound. "How much trouble could I possibly get into, what with my condition and all?"

Treville rolled his eyes and Aramis knew the captain hadn't bought his act.

"Go on," said Treville, waving toward the gate. "Better trouble find you out there than in here. But be careful. The shooter is still out there. If you cross him, please, don't do anything I'll regret."

As they headed for the gate, a hand on Aramis' arm stopped him. He spun back to face his captain, shaken by the look of displeasure in his eyes.

"A word..?" said Treville.

After a quick glance up to the balcony above the table, and coincidentally, outside Treville's office, Aramis had a sinking feeling Treville knew everything. He motioned for d'Artagnan to go ahead, not wanting him to be a part of this conversation.

"I'm granting you some leeway," said Treville, his voice low and earnest. "You have a good heart, Aramis. And a good head. You will do what's right. Just remember, the rest of your life depends on what you do next."

Aramis couldn't look away. His Captain's eyes bore right through him, locking him in place.

He didn't want to hurt his captain, or tarnish any trust the man had in him, but he couldn't ignore his distrust of the legal system either. Even if St. Laurent were tried and executed, he would learn nothing. _No_ , Aramis thought. _St. Laurent needs to be taught a lesson_.

"I will take your words under advisement, Captain," said Aramis. "That is all I can promise you."

Treville held his gaze. "It doesn't matter what you are, Aramis. But who you are. Remember that."

Aramis turned and walked toward d'Artagnan waiting at the gates.

"I trust you, Aramis," called Treville.

Aramis clenched his jaw, took a deep breath. _Lord have mercy on my soul,_ he thought, glancing up at the sky, _for I feel a sin coming on._

He walked past the Gascon into the streets of Paris, feeling d'Artagnan at his side a moment later.

D'Artagnan took the lead, taking Aramis to the man who knew St. Laurent's wife.

Aramis followed quietly, haunted by his captain's trust because he knew he was going to break it. Not today, but certainly in the days to come. He looked at d'Artagnan and sighed. The young man didn't deserve to be dragged into this, especially after just receiving his commission.

They turned a corner and arrived at the merchant's shop. D'Artagnan opened the door and glanced backward at Aramis before going in. Aramis followed, staying a step behind.

"Remember me?" said the Gascon, stepping up to the counter where a man in a leather apron stood.

"Yes," replied the merchant. "From yesterday. But you're with someone new." The man peered around d'Artagnan and smiled at Aramis. "New boots, monsieur?"

"Afraid not," replied Aramis.

The man looked defeated. "Oh, well, what can I help you with then?"

D'Artagnan cleared his throat. "I heard you speaking of a woman yesterday whose husband had fallen upon hard times."

"Ah, yes, M. St. Laurent," said the merchant. "Terrible business to be in, making weapons. Very fickle. Men tend to be very particular with what they carry."

Aramis caught the man staring at his pistol. It stood out from most by the intricate design work etched on its grip. Aramis turned, removing it from the man's line of sight. "Yes," he said. "And my friend here is looking to purchase one, and I thought, why not give a man a hand up when he's down."

"How charitable of you," replied the merchant, eyeing their footwear. "I've also been rather down on my luck recently…"

Aramis stepped forward and wrapped an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders. "I'm afraid he's saved for only one guilty pleasure," he said, smiling. "But perhaps if you could direct us in finding this gunsmith, my friend could spare a few coins for your troubles."

Aramis felt d'Artagnan's shoulders stiffen under his hold. "I'll pay you back later," he said under his breath as he smiled at the merchant.

The merchant licked his lips, staring at the small purse on d'Artagnan's belt.

The Gascon reached in then dropped a few coins into the man's hands. "The gunsmith?" he asked. "Where can we find him?"

The merchant pocketed the coins. "He hasn't a shop in town. Had to close it down," he said. "Him and the misses live outside the walls. Several lieu west of the city."

"Thank you," said Aramis, pulling d'Artagnan back toward the door. "And if my friend and I ever need new boots, we'll know where to come."

Out in the street Aramis and d'Artagnan stood facing each other, contemplating their next step.

"We'll need horses," said d'Artagnan. "Should you even ride?"

Aramis breathed deeply, rubbed his neck. He wasn't sure how he'd feel on a horse. So far, he felt fine. A few twinges now and then, but the motions of a horse could change all that. "I'm willing to give it a try," he said.

D'Artagnan started back toward the garrison. "Why is it so important we meet this man?" he asked. "I thought you wanted to duel?"

"I want to understand," said Aramis. "No, I need to understand."

"What's to understand? He tried to kill you, isn't that enough? Who cares how he lives, or what he eats. Or whatever it is you think you might find."

Aramis sighed and placed a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Not if I'm going to forsake everything it means to be a musketeer," he said, dizzied by the sound of his own words.

"Are you sure you're not just looking for a way out?"

"Absolutely not."

"Good."

Aramis smiled, grounded by his friend's absolute conviction. "Besides, I deserve no less than to know the man I'm about to kill," he said. "I must carry some guilt, or I am not the gentleman I thought I was. And, I don't actually want to meet him. I just want to learn about him."

They walked on toward the garrison until d'Artagnan stopped and blocked his path. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Play both sides of the coin so calmly?"

Aramis studied the young man's face. "Faith, my friend," he said. "In the end, I have faith I will have done the right thing."

"You are a man of many wonders, Aramis."

Aramis clapped him on the shoulder and turned him toward the garrison. "Yes. But am I a man capable of riding a horse?"

**vii.**

When they arrived at the farmhouse belonging to St. Laurent, Aramis dismounted. He pulled out his spyglass and surveyed the land and buildings. "It appears no one's home," he said. "Let's be quick about this."

D'Artagnan looked down at him. "Are you sure you're up for this? The ride here seemed quite, uncomfortable for you."

Aramis rolled his eyes and remounted. "I was trying not to think about it," he said. "But thank you for reminding me."

"Seriously, Aramis," said d'Artagnan. "You actually look a little pale, and you've been rubbing your jaw since we left the city. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Never mind about me," said Aramis. He gathered his reins and sidled his horse next to d'Artagnan. "We're here now, so let's get this over with before anyone returns home. I'll surely pay for this later, but I'm confident it will be nothing a good bottle of brandy won't fix. Now let's go."

Aramis spurred his horse forward and d'Artagnan fell in behind him. They tied the horses behind the stable and proceeded to the workshop attached to it. It was locked, but Aramis was not above breaking a window to gain entry.

Inside, they disposed of the broken glass and hid the window by closing the tattered curtain. D'Artagnan found a lantern and they started searching the room. The walls were covered with half assembled muskets and pistols, the floor covered in iron shavings and saw dust. On one of the workbenches more pistols and arquebus lay scattered under oiling cloths and papers.

Aramis picked up one of the more finished products and held it up to look down the barrel. "Fine craftsmanship," he said. He dropped it to his side and bounced it in his hand. "Good weight. Shame."

"Are we shopping or looking for…" D'Artagnan looked at him with a furrowed brow. "What exactly are we looking for?"

"I'm not sure," said Aramis. "But there has to be a reason why he chose me. There are plenty of good men with skills all throughout Paris." He tossed the half finished weapon onto the workbench.

"Probably because you're the best," said d'Artagnan.

Aramis smiled, the feeling inside him just shy of humble. He turned to thank d'Artagnan and found him rifling through books and papers scattered across one of the tables.

"Apparently, no one wants this St. Laurent's weapons," said d'Artagnan, turning and leaning against the edge of the table. "And he's broke."

"How do you know this?" asked Aramis.

D'Artagnan reached behind him and picked up an open ledger. "It says so here," he said, showing Aramis the book. "Looks like he's also about to lose the farm. He's bankrupt and desperate, and we both know some of the worst ideas are born from boredom and desperation."

Aramis chuckled, remembering a familiar phrase from his favourite book. "Idle hands are the devil's playground," he said.

"Well, it looks like the devil came down to Paris," said d'Artagnan.

"Indeed he…" Aramis' voice trailed off as he spotted a portrait on the workbench. He picked it up. It was the picture of a young woman, her hair tied back off her face, her rosy cheeks matching the colour of the flowers on the dress she wore.

Aramis felt nauseous.

"What is it?" asked d'Artagnan.

Aramis put the picture back down. "His wife, I suppose."

"And soon to be widow," said d'Artagnan.

Aramis felt a stab to his heart and looked at him sharply. "Put everything back where we found it and let's leave."

D'Artagnan returned the book to the table but didn't turn back. Aramis noticed him looking at something and approached. "What is it?"

"Letters, I think," said d'Artagnan. "Lots of them."

Aramis watched d'Artagnan push about the pieces of paper, each one similar to how they were written, same length, and same signature at the bottom. He stilled the Gascon's' hand and picked up the stack.

He rifled through them, reading off the names addressed at the top of each one. "Frontenac. DuPonte. Baillie. These are the names of Captains and marksmen. All from different regiments." Aramis smacked the letters with the back of his hand. "These aren't letters. They're invitations. St. Laurent plans our duel to be an exhibition."

D'Artagnan's mouth fell open. "Are you serious?"

"Apparently _he_ is," Aramis said, flipping through the papers.

"He's trying to build his business by killing you in some sort of… show? How does that make sense?"

As the pieces fell into place, Aramis closed his eyes. "He wants to prove that the musket is more accurate than man," he said.

The sound of hooves on gravel alerted them to someone's hasty arrival. They stared at one another briefly before quickly arranging the letters, blowing out the lantern and hastening out the back window.

They crept around the stable as they heard someone enter the workshop. Aramis considered glancing back through the broken window, curious to what repugnance looked like dressed as a man. He decided not to, unsure if he'd be able to contain his hostility, and followed after d'Artagnan.

They gathered their horses and fled the property, not stopping until they'd cleared the farm. When they finally slowed, the adrenaline distracting Aramis' from his injury wore off. One second he felt fine, the next, he wanted to rip off the side of his face just to make the throbbing go away.

D'Artagnan pulled up next to him, put a hand on his shoulder. "You pushed yourself too hard, didn't you?" he remarked.

Aramis fingered the bandage around the wound. When he looked at his hand there was blood. "Perhaps a little," he said.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Was it worth it?"

Aramis leaned forward as the pounding in his jaw and behind his ear overwhelmed him. The muscles and tendons in the side of his neck were so tight, Aramis thought only a beheading could cure him. "Yes," he said.

"We're almost home," said d'Artagnan. "Can you make it?"

Aramis took deep breaths and squeezed the area behind his ear. The pounding did not subside and to make matters worse, his right eye began to tear. "I have no choice," he said, forcing his words through gritted teeth.

D'Artagnan steered his horse closer. "You always have a choice."

"Are you being philosophical with me?" asked Aramis, teasing the young man.

The look in the Gascon's eyes told him he was serious.

"Look," said d'Artagnan, resting his forearms across his pommel. "Are you still sure you want to go through with this?"

Aramis glanced at him. "How did you feel after you killed Gaudet? Did you feel better?"

D'Artagnan stared into the distance for a few beats then rested his eyes on Aramis. "Yes," he said. "But not satisfied. It didn't bring my father back."

"If given the chance, would you do it again?"

D'Artagnan looked him in the eyes. "In a heartbeat."

"Then the answer to your question is, yes."

"Come here," said d'Artagnan, waving him over. "You're going to fall off your horse. Let me get you home."

The sudden softness in d'Artagnan's voice eased some of his discomfort. Aramis had no doubt the young man could get him home without any further duress, but the stubbornness in Aramis had a way of rearing its ugly head at the most inopportune times. "It's a gracious offer," he replied, sitting up. "But no. I can ride knowing there's a bottle of brandy with my name on it waiting for me at the garrison."

"You're a fool, you know."

Aramis winked at the Gascon. "Yes," he said. "But an experienced one. Now let's go before I change my mind."

**viii.**

Porthos and Athos spent enough time wandering the palace to make sure they were seen before heading for _The Wren_.

Porthos raised his glass, meeting Athos' similarly raised glass above the table. "Here's to helping a brother out and not havin' to work hard to do it," he said, and then downed the wine in a single gulp.

He banged the glass on the table and poured himself another. Then he stared into his drink and sighed. "So we're doing this?"

Athos canted his head, took a sip of his wine. "If it's what Aramis wants."

"I'm sure it is," said Porthos.

Athos sat back. "Are you going soft on me, Porthos?"

Porthos squared his shoulders, puffed his chest. "Never," he said. "I was just thinking, what if in the end, we all get caught and Aramis never even gets his justice? We'll all go to prison, and worse, the captain will never forgive us?"

"It's in Aramis' hands," said Athos. "What ever he choses, I will stay by his side."

"As will I," said Porthos, loud enough to garner unwanted attention from nearby patrons. He lowered his voice and leaned over the table. "I'd go to hell and back if it meant helping one of my brothers. No matter what side of the law."

"I didn't mean that you wouldn't," said Athos. "But what do you suggest? Have you come up with a plan that would grant Aramis his justice while also appeasing the law? Because I haven't."

Athos finished the wine in his glass and looked around the tavern. "We both know there's a very good chance St. Laurent will go unpunished if the law has anything to do with it. We saw what happened to Bonnaire."

Porthos grumbled. His chest tightened every time he heard that name. Bonnaire was a slave trader whose punishment had been a new ship and a partnership with the Cardinal.

"But we took care him… regardless of propriety," said Athos.

Porthos sat back. "Hm. Sometimes I wonder what the Spanish ever did with him?"

"Really?"

"Naw."

Porthos picked up his glass and held it out toward Athos. "To justice at the sake of propriety," he said.

Athos clinked his glass. "I'll drink to that."

By the time they left _The Wren_ it was dark outside. They made their way back to the garrison, walking through the streets of Paris at a steady clip. On their arrival they met with d'Artagnan at the table by the stairs.

"Where's Aramis?" asked Athos, tossing his hat down.

D'Artagnan looked grim. "In his room," he said. "The physician is looking at him."

Porthos' stomach dropped into his boots. "What happened? He all right?"

"That's relative," replied d'Artagnan. "Ask him and he's fine. Ask me, and he's a fool."

Porthos clenched his fists. "D'Artagnan..?"

The Gascon showed his palms in surrender. "He'll live," he said. "He just pushed himself a little too hard and tore some stitches. As a matter of fact, he's probably two sheets to the wind right now. The physician filled him with so much brandy he won't be feeling a thing for days."

Porthos relaxed and sat down. Now that his fear had been abated his stomach craved attention. He grabbed the ladle from the pot in the middle of the table and scooped out bowls of stew for himself and Athos. "If walking did this to him, how's he gonna handle a duel?"

D'Artagnan shifted in his seat, his left leg bouncing under the table. "It wasn't the walking," he said quietly. "It was the riding."

Porthos spit the stew from his mouth.

"You let him ride a horse?" asked Athos, throwing his arms in the air.

D'Artagnan shrugged, turned to face them. "It's not like I really had any choice. Aramis can be very persuasive." He turned pensive for a moment. "I think it's the eyes…?"

Athos sighed.

Porthos slumped back in his chair. "Yeah," he said. "Haven't met a woman yet who's been able to say no to him."

D'Artagnan pulled his head back and frowned. Porthos waved him off, not at all concerned he'd just insulted him.

"Where did you go that required horses?" asked Athos.

"St. Laurent lives outside the city," said d'Artagnan. "We checked out his workshop."

"And?" asked Porthos, sitting forward. "What d'ya find?"

D'Artagnan looked down at the table between his fidgeting hands. "The reason this is all happening," he said.

D'Artagnan explained the letters and what he found in the ledger. By the end, Porthos wanted to beat St. Laurent senseless. He settled for the table. "That's senseless," he said, pounding his fist. "He thinks a man's life is worth less than his stupid musket."

"It's quite irrelevant now," said Athos, looking at him. "The day after tomorrow it'll be over. Pierre St. Laurent won't be a problem anymore."

The physician exited a building across the courtyard, Treville at his side. When they approached the table, the captain gave them all a stern look before bypassing them for the stairs to his office.

Porthos bowed his head, feeling guilty despite not doing anything wrong.

It was short lived though, since he wanted answers from the physician. "How is he?" he asked, his restless muscles unable to contain him in his seat.

"Asleep," said the physician. "As he should be. He most likely doesn't feel anything now, but by morning he will be paying a heavy price. I've redone the needlework and it should last… As long as he doesn't continue to disobey my instructions and take tomorrow to rest."

"He was in a lot of pain," said d'Artagnan. "It seemed like more than just torn needlework."

Porthos looked at d'Artagnan. "How bad was he?"

"Bad."

"The muscles and tendons in the neck damage easily," said the physician. "The ball nicked an artery, which was easy enough to sew closed. What Aramis suffers from now is the affliction caused to his sternomastoid muscle. It's the most prominent muscle in the neck."

The physician shifted on his feet, his voice growing louder with excitement. "You see, it attaches behind the ear and travels down the neck where it…"

Porthos held out a hand. "Thank you," he said, not wanting the anatomy lesson. "But is he going to be all right?"

The physician cleared his throat. "Yes," he said, his voice now calm. "As I was trying to say, the muscle is responsible for most head movements, so if he stays resting for a day or so and avoids any strenuous activity, everything should sort itself out."

The physician left and Porthos hunched over in his chair, bracing his elbows on his knees. "If only it were that simple."

**ix.**

Aramis watched as a shadow crept across his ceiling, heralding the morning sun breaking over the garrison wall. Outside, morning muster was in progress. He could hear random words from orders being given, frustrating him even more that he couldn't join them.

His head pounded, his stomach swished like water circling a drain. He wasn't sure if it was from the overexertion the day before, or the brandy he drank last night. Either way, Aramis felt like someone should be digging his grave.

When the shadow on the ceiling disappeared, and his room became bathed in light, he decided that resting didn't necessarily mean solely on his back. He pushed back the covers, braced his neck and sat up. On the edge of the bed he waited for the pounding to subside enough to stand. After he dressed, and not without a few groans and cursives, he left his room to join the others in the courtyard.

Porthos and d'Artagnan were nowhere to be found, but Athos was in the stables mucking out stalls. When Aramis entered, Athos greeted him with a nod.

"You could make yourself useful and grab a pitchfork," Athos said, tossing hay out of the stall.

Aramis sighed. "If only the physician would allow it," he said in a light voice.

Athos smiled and continued to work. "I can't imagine what evil deed I've done to be relegated to the stables."

"I have a theory about that."

Athos stopped shovelling and looked at him.

"Treville knows," Aramis said, resting his arms across the top of the stall.

"So this is punishment for lying," said Athos, shaking his head lightly. He pulled off his scarf and ran it down his face. "What does he plan to do about all this? And more importantly, how did he find out?"

"He came down right after you and Porthos left the other day," replied Aramis. He scooped a ladle of water from the hanging bucket beside him and took it to his friend. "I think he was eavesdropping from the balcony above us. Heard everything."

Athos drank the water and thanked him with a nod. "And will he speak with the King?"

Aramis leaned against the inside of the stall, crossed his arms over his chest. "He trusts I will do the right thing," he said. "He gave me a few days to come to my senses. I think he's actually trying to teach me a lesson somewhere in all this," he said, laughing quietly at the irony.

"And how many days is a few?"

"He wasn't very specific about that part," replied Aramis.

"Ah."

Aramis pushed off the wall. "Yes. Ah." He paced the small stall, scooting hay toward his friend with the toe of his boot. "Do you think I'm doing the right thing?"

"I think only you can know what the right thing is," Athos said, resting his pitchfork against the wall. He stood close to Aramis, mimicking his posture by crossing his arms over his own chest. "What does your heart say?"

Aramis pulled on his beard. "It says yes," he replied.

"You seem hesitant," said Athos. "You know you still have a day to think about this."

Aramis appreciated the suggestion, but his mind was made up. "If Treville doesn't intervene before then," he said.

"Yes, there is that."

Aramis watched Athos return to work. He absently pushed more hay in his friend's direction, not yet ready to leave. "He needs to be taught a lesson," he said. "Not just be told what he's doing is wrong, but actually realize it."

"But is killing him teaching him anything? It seems to me quite the definitive statement." Athos paused and looked at him. "The law _has_ fallen in our favour, Aramis."

"Really? When?"

Athos looked at the ceiling. "Give me a moment…"

Aramis stepped forward, his neck tense, which he ignored, motivated by his increasing frustration. "Ninon," he said. "Exiled for doing nothing more than offering women an education. Labarge, given commission in the Red Guard. Marsac, dead. Agnes, run out of Paris. Tell me when justice has prevailed in Paris!"

"Ninon and Agnes are probably living fulfilling lives as we speak. Safe and happy in their own right," said Athos. "And Labarge wound up getting what he deserved in the end." He paused, and his head canted to the side. "As for Marsac, I'm sorry old friend. There is nothing I can say."

Aramis sighed, the muscles around his heart twitching at the name of his fallen comrade. "This talk has helped me tremendously," he said.

"Really?" asked Athos.

"No. Not really."

Aramis stepped out of the stall, his hand massaging the back of his ear where it throbbed.

"May I ask what you intend to do?" asked Athos.

"Based on the history of our bewildering judicial system," he replied. "I see no other option. Noon tomorrow, Pierre St. Laurent will be dead."

Aramis spent the rest of the day in quiet solitude. He moved about the garrison never making eye contact or engaging in conversation. His head heavy, he lay down a few times but found Porthos' face splattered with blood greeting him each time he closed his eyes.

He ate little and spent a good portion of the day counting the wooden splinters on the courtyard tabletop. Aramis saw Athos pass by the table a few times. They shared a small nod or smile, but never engaged in conversation.

Aramis knew all was said; it was in his own hands now. Which he was staring at on the table, weighing the rights and wrongs as he moved them up and down. No matter how many times he went over it, both hands ended up equal. The only thing tipping the balance was desire- that burning mass in his chest when he imagined himself squeezing the trigger.

He kept imaging the hole, dead centre in his target's forehead. Smelled the sulphur and tasted the smoke. Then he would realize he was smiling and his heart was pounding.

He returned his eyes to the courtyard, watching as musketeers went about their day. Strong men. Honourable men. Righteous men.

Aramis wondered if it was actually vengeance, not justice he sought, and if so, was it worth betraying what it meant to be a musketeer in order to do achieve it? Was teaching St. Laurent life was more important than wealth and fame important enough to break from his training?

No answer came, no sign from above, only the yearning in his soul to squeeze the trigger.

Based on Aramis' experience, there was a strong chance St. Laurent would walk free of this. Or, he would spend the rest of his life in prison misguidedly angry he'd been treated unjustly instead of in repentance.

 _No_ , Aramis thought. _My way guarantees punishment. St. Laurent is morally culpable for his actions and is only getting what he fairly deserves. That's justice, not vengeance._

He got up from the table and walked to his room, wondering if he should pack his belongings now or have them sent to the Chatelet later.

**x.**

Aramis moved to sit in the corner of his bed, resting his head where the walls met. It helped in keeping his head straight without much effort and afforded him the feeling of something wrapped around his body.

He crossed his legs at the ankles where they dangled off the mattress and pulled a pillow into his lap, clutching it to his stomach and reinforcing the feeling that someone was holding him.

With his decision now cast in stone, he thought he'd feel better. He didn't. So when the captain knocked on his door a few minutes later, entering without invitation, Aramis sighed and looked away.

Treville held up a hand. "Don't get up on my account," he said.

His captain grabbed a chair and placed it by Aramis' feet. He sat down and leaned forward. "The letter will be delivered to the King tomorrow," he said. "Will you be by my side?"

"No."

"I thought you were better than this, Aramis."

Aramis closed his eyes, unable to look at his captain. "What are you going to do?"

"That's up to you, son."

Treville's voice burned his ears. The heat travelled down his throat into his chest. Aramis couldn't breathe. "He invaded our home. He places wealth above life. He thinks this is a game."

Aramis heard Treville breathing, steady and calm like the moments before a storm.

"Don't ignore the obvious," said his captain.

Aramis frowned.

"He tried to kill you."

"This isn't about me," said Aramis, casting his gaze out the window. "This is about a man who needs to learn life is precious."

"That's rubbish. And deep down, you know it," said Treville. "There's a reason you make such a fine marksman. We both know it's not just about skill. It's an ability. An ability that, quite frankly, scares the daylight out of me at times. So don't give me this nonsense that life is precious. You have the desire to take it every time you raise that musket or arquebus to your shoulder."

"If someone finds themselves within my purview, there's probably a damn good reason they're there!" replied Aramis. "St. Laurent is using me as a sacrificial pawn to fulfill his own desires."

Treville rose. "This whole scenario reeks of vengeance, Aramis. And if you tell yourself otherwise, maybe you should be reconsidering your decision."

"I've made up my mind."

Treville pushed his chair across the floor with a grating screech. "As have I," he said. "I'll be there tomorrow with the regiment, but I'm not going to stop you. You're a grown man, Aramis. And you should have to live with the consequences of your decisions. I can only be there to pick up the pieces, whether they be his… or yours."

Aramis didn't want anything interfering with his justifications, he'd made up his mind and didn't need or want the confusion rattling his brain, so he pushed his captain's words from his mind. But there was one thing he wanted to know, so he swallowed his indignation and looked at him with calmer eyes. "May I ask you one question?" he said, his voice soft yet obstinate.

"Of course, son."

"I would lay down my life for king and country," he said, "as any musketeer would. But it feels… unrequited. I feel like I'm at the mercy of an unjust system that does not hold my heart as I do it."

Treville looked at him, and the altruism Aramis knew him for appeared. "What is your question?" asked his captain, his posture and voice now relaxed.

"How do you find satisfaction, and feel peace within yourself, when you believe the justice system you've sworn to protect is a lie?"

A long sigh escaped Treville before he answered. "You should know the answer to that better than anyone, Aramis. It's faith. Faith that I am doing what's right… regardless of the cost to me."

"And as for my brothers…"

"What about them?"

Aramis made eye contact with his captain, firming his voice with all the conviction he had. "I want it known they are against me on this. I stand alone in my decision."

"I'm sure you do," said Treville. "And now that you've exonerated them, get some rest." He left, closing the door behind him and Aramis let his head fall back against the wall.

A short while later Porthos entered. "What did Treville want?"

Aramis sat up and threw the pillow on the floor. "Nothing. Just checking to see how I was doing."

"And?"

"I'm fine."

"Uh huh."

Aramis put his feet on the ground and pushed up from the bed. "Fetch my musket," he said. "I want to prepare it for tomorrow."

Porthos was grinning as he left to get the weapon. By the time he returned, Aramis was at the table, oilcloth over his shoulder with files and brushes placed in tidy lines before him.

Aramis held out his hand in Porthos' direction. "The ball," he said.

"Haha!" said Porthos, before retrieving the ball from his pocket. "I knew it. So it's to be a little poetic justice then."

Aramis took the ball and placed it on the table. "There is nothing poetic about this." Then he took the musket from his friend's hand and rested it across his knees.

"We leave after morning muster," Aramis said, stripping the musket down to its primal parts. "I want plenty of time to get there."

"Do you want to take some target practice?" asked Porthos. "Set up a few jars in the back field?"

Aramis wiped the oilcloth down the length of the barrel. He used a gentle touch, moving along the grain. "No. If something went wrong…"

Porthos bowed his head. "Yeah. Don't wanna take any chances."

Aramis picked up each piece of the musket, inspecting them as he held them up to the light then placing them in succession on the table. He picked the ball up next, rolling it between his palms, then reached for a file.

Porthos cleared his throat. "I'll leave you alone, then," he said, walking toward the door.

"No," Aramis said, looking at him with a smile. "In fact, gather the others. And bring the finest bottle of grape brandy you can find."

Porthos hitched his thumbs into his belt and dipped his head. "Won't be easy to come by," he said.

Aramis waved him away. "Abscond it if you must."

Porthos clapped his hands, then turned and left, his exuberance infectious. Aramis picked up the file again, whistling as he delicately filed away the letter L. Treville had said his peace, and Aramis heard every word he'd said.

Faith would be his saviour tomorrow. Faith in himself to do what needed to be done.

There was nothing left to think about, nothing left to do, except enjoy an evening with his friends before judgement day.

He finished with his musket long before a lantern was needed. He put it away and spent the rest of the night sharing in drink with his friends, talking of everything but tomorrow.

As the brandy dwindled and words slurred, each of them retired to their beds until Aramis was alone.

He crawled into his own bed and closed his eyes, and for the first time he saw neither the world spinning nor Porthos' face splattered in blood.

But his sleep was not peaceful. He woke the next morning feeling as if he hadn't slept at all. He sat up, his shirt clinging to him, damp and cool, his hair wet and sticking to the sides of his face. Even his limbs trembled.

He took deep breaths as he sat on the edge of the bed, letting the cool breeze coming through the window dry his feverish skin. His heart fluttered, not only in his chest, but also at every pulse point in his body.

"Get a grip," he told himself, as he pushed to his feet. "Some food and wine and you'll be feeling much better." He changed his shirt, put on his coat and all the accoutrements, and grabbed his musket before leaving his room.

He went outside, joining morning muster for the first time in several days, but could not bring himself to look at his captain. Porthos and Athos stood on either side of him, occasionally glancing his way and making him fussy. He couldn't stand still.

Aramis wanted this over. He wanted to get outside the garrison walls, and outside Paris. He felt everyone looking at him, whispering behind his back, and it made his skin flush. He didn't like it. He knew he was regarded as the calm one, the rock, the one who held himself together with poise and panache.

But right now, he felt none of those things. Even worse, he felt like everyone around him knew that.

Except his closest friends.

He looked at d'Artagnan down the line. The young man stood with his chin high and firm. Between them, Athos stood a prime example of stoicism. To Aramis' left, Porthos fidgeted as he always did when forced to stand in one place for too long.

When Treville called the dismissal, Aramis turned quickly and marched for the gate. His mind worked feverishly. He hadn't paid any attention to muster, had no idea what orders were given to the regiment or himself.

He stopped abruptly when he was clear of the garrison. Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan were with him. "You don't have to come," he said. He pointed back toward the garrison. "Turn back now and wipe your hands of this. Treville knows and he'll be there."

Porthos crossed his arms over his chest. "Wouldn't miss this for the world," he said.

"I have nowhere to be," said d'Artagnan, glancing at Athos.

"No. Can't think of a single appointment," said Athos.

Without a second thought, Aramis continued through the streets of Paris. They'd left the horses behind, not wanting to delay their departure. Aramis also wanted to be in top form when he arrived, and based on his last trip on horseback, walking was his best option.

It was a long walk through the streets as people crowded the paths and storefronts, but it was an even longer walk after they passed through the gates.

Aramis listened to the idle chatter of his friends behind him as he continued to put one foot in front of the other. Several points of interest were addressed, like, was this a trap? Where would they go afterwards?

Aramis knew where he was going, but didn't feel like sharing. Their moods were good and he didn't want to spoil them. He knew most of it was an act for his benefit, to keep him grounded and feel supported. He appreciated all of it, but in the end it was his cross to bear.

"I wonder if his muskets are easier to load?" asked d'Artagnan, triggering Aramis' attention.

"You don't need a fast reload if you hit your target the first time," said Aramis, mildly engaged in the conversation.

"What 'bout multiple enemies?" asked Porthos.

"That's what friends are for," replied Aramis.

Athos chuckled softly. "Ah, the man with all the answers."

"It's a burden I must bear everyday," said Aramis.

He turned onto the path leading into Clausette Field, his grip tightening around the musket. He also felt his heart pounding and knew he had to get his faculties under control.

"Over there," said Porthos, pointing across the water. "Quite the crowd."

Aramis bristled. His jaw spasmed from both the pain he'd been ignoring and the anger festering inside him.

Each step became longer and more determined as he neared the pond. D'Artagnan and Athos were practically jogging to keep pace.

As they approached, the crowd on the other side of the pond turned to face them. Aramis paid them no mind, instead, searching out St. Laurent.

He saw a man in a black cape, his hip swung to the side as he rested his weight on one leg, his hand resting atop a musket.

Nausea welled in Aramis' stomach; he gulped back the bile rising in his throat. Determined to get this over with, he lengthened his strides. Now Porthos was jogging to keep up.

"Aramis. Wait."

He heard Athos' call, but kept going. He didn't want anything interfering with his momentum.

"Aramis."

A hand on his shoulder stopped him and he spun around, his chest heaving and eyes focused.

Athos, his face soft, looked at him. "Over there," he said, nodding toward the forest. "It's Treville and the regiment."

A hand clamped around Aramis' heart. He felt cold sweat bead his forehead. "I know," he said. He looked past Athos to the others. "This is your last chance. I implore you to leave now. Have no part in this… whatever happens. I told Treville you are here only to try and stop me."

His three friends stood firm.

"Then let me finish this," he said.

The crowd parted as Aramis walked up to St. Laurent. He recognized many of the faces surrounding him, mercenaries, captains and marksmen. Aramis never liked any of them before, but now he hated them.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, M. Aramis," said St. Laurent, offering his hand in greeting.

"The fact that you find pleasure in any of this speaks volumes for why I must finish this," said Aramis.

St. Laurent threw his head back in laughter. "I wish I had the chance to get to know you better, Aramis. It's such a shame someone of your talents must leave this earth." He sighed deeply, ending with a smile. "But it's time for a revolution. Now everyman can join the ranks of the highly acclaimed marksmen."

Aramis had to remain calm. Anger meant jitters. And jitters now, meant shaky hands later. He let his lips part slightly, relaxing the tension in his jaw. He drew in calm, steady breaths to slow, and strategically maintain his heartbeat.

There was nothing left this man could say to unnerve him, so he stood still and relaxed, listening to his arrogance and counting the seconds.

St. Laurent turned to the crowd, brandishing his musket above his head. "Gentleman, I present to you the finest craftsmanship this side of the Seine. Its shot is straight and true…" He faced Aramis with a scowl. "Even an average man can shoot like an accomplished marksman."

The crowd was quiet. Aramis suspected most of them didn't believe a word this man said. They were here for the show, but if all went according to St. Laurent's plan, they would be first in line to purchase the rifle. It was win, win for all of them.

"Enough with the bravado," said Aramis. "Or are you stalling?"

St. Laurent chafed ever so slightly then looked passed him to where his brothers stood. "I see you've brought friends?"

Aramis nodded at the gathering around St. Laurent. "As did you."

St. Laurent laughed. "But mine are here to watch and be amazed. Yours, I suspect, are here to kill me when I succeed."

"There won't be a need," said Aramis. "And you're still stalling."

A huff of air escaped St. Laurent, his lips twitched and his brow furrowed. Aramis knew he'd gotten under his skin and didn't want to delay any longer. "How do you wish to proceed?" he asked.

"This good gentleman here will drop the flag," said St. Laurent, and a man stepped forward between them holding a red handkerchief.

"We load. We fire," continued St. Laurent. "No stands. Man against man."

"Distance?"

St. Laurent smiled. "A hundred yards."

"Oh, no," said Porthos. "That's too far, Aramis."

Aramis took a breath. "A hundred it is."

"I will retreat fifty that way," said St. Laurent. "And you, fifty the opposite."

Aramis felt a hand on his arm. "Are you sure about this?" asked Athos.

Aramis shrugged him off. "Shall we begin?"

St. Laurent tipped his head then turned. At two steps, he looked back. "Would it be too much trouble to ask for a written endorsement?" he asked. "Before it's too late."

There was no question in Aramis' mind. This man was to die.

He turned and paced out his distance, his friends keeping watch behind him.

At fifty yards, Aramis glanced at the tree line. He couldn't see them, but knew his captain and the regiment were there waiting.

Treville expected too much from him. He was still holding out hope.

Aramis made the sign of the cross and asked the lord to have mercy on his soul.

Then he turned.

St. Laurent stood a hundred yards away.

Aramis pictured the smug smile on his face, then imagined blood dripping down his face, oozing from the smoking hole between his eyes.

" _Because you're the best."_

The flag was raised.

" _I thought you were better than this, Aramis."_

" _What does your heart say?"_

The red handkerchief fluttered toward the ground.

Aramis' hands moved deftly around the musket, loading the powder and ramming the charge. He kept his eyes focused across the field, moving on instinct and experience alone.

_Porthos' face smeared with blood._

He lit the match-chord and hoisted the musket to his shoulder.

" _This whole scenario reeks of vengeance."_

He blew gently and cocked, ready to fire.

" _Killing him seems quite the definitive statement."_

" _Better… but not satisfied."_

Aramis' breath hitched, he paused.

Then he squeezed the trigger.

Two bangs echoed above the field. Two balls were shot nearly simultaneously. Smoke plumed from both muskets and sulphur wafted in the air.

Then the field went silent and still.

Aramis slowly lay his musket at his feet then charged forward in a burst of rage.

He ran toward St. Laurent's prone body, the stabbing in his neck reminding him why he was doing this.

He saw Treville and the musketeers enter the clearing and pushed himself harder. His lungs burning, his coat flapping around his legs as he flew across the field.

He slid on his knees the last few feet, reaching St. Laurent before Treville could catch him.

He grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him upward. Blood spurted from the side of St. Laurent's neck, his eyes wide, and his face pale and covered in sweat.

"You missed," said St. Laurent.

Aramis smiled. "Unlike you," he said. "I actually didn't."

Blood seeped through St. Laurent's fingers as he clung to the side of his neck.

Aramis leaned in closer, shrugging off the hands pulling him back. "You and your musket failed at the garrison," he seethed. "And you failed again here."

St. Laurent's mouth hung open as tears slid down one side of his face.

Aramis looked at the superficial wound on St. Laurent's neck, feeling no sympathy for his coming pain. "Remember this, as you rot in prison," he said. "It's not the musket that makes the marksman, but the man wielding it."

Aramis stood, letting St. Laurent fall back to the ground. He turned and pushed his way through the crowd. "He's all yours Captain."

He walked on, not stopping to look back, knowing that tonight, he would sleep like a man who knew both vengeance and justice.

**Finis.**

**Author's Note-** Thank you JenF for your wonderful beta reading.


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